It's Always Sudden
by Nynaeve1723
Summary: Old fanfic of mine that I'm now posting on Set postThe Body, it's what happens when Angel and the Fang Gang come for Joyce's funeral


DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon...etc., etc., etc. ... Mutant Enemy...

so on, so on, and so on ... Bottom line: not mine.

A/N: It's been a looooooong time since I wrote in the Buffy and Angel fandoms. This story is an old one, but, as wasn't around when I wrote these, I'm posting them here for the first time.

SUMMARY: Set post-"The Body" when Angel and the Fang Gang come to Sunnydale for the funeral.

FEEDBACK: is always welcome, but please do take in to mind that this was written while the series was still on air so some elements may not reflect what later occurred.

**It's Always Sudden **

Wes's face is grim, cold.

"What is it?" I demand, hearing the whine in my voice. "Coz, I gotta tell you, I've groveled all I'm gonna-"

Cordelia mutters something about groveling, what groveling?

"Angel," he interrupts. His voice is colder than his face, stern.

Cordelia turns around, alarm evident in her eyes and the set of her lips. I can tell she wonders what I've done to Wesley. I've used up all the trust I ever had with her, to say the least. Fighting one rising evil in Topanga isn't going to re-establish all that's been lost.

"What?" I ask, smoothing my voice, waiting for whatever Wes is going to tell me.

"That was Giles," Wesley states.

"Oh? How is good, old Giles, in good, old Sunnydale?" Cordelia asks with bright cheer. "Bet he called to tell you all about good, old _Buffy_ and the latest news of her life."

Cordelia does know how to twist the knife, I am reminded. She has justification

this time, I grant her.

Wes's demeanor is unchanged, grim, still, like there is something he can barely

contain and yet if containing it would change whatever he has to say, he'd find a way. "He did, actually, call about Buffy."

"And how is my favorite vampire Slayer?" Cordelia asks, emphasizing vampire

with her voice and the sidelong glance she throws my way.

"Cordelia!" Wes rebukes sharply. We both look at him.

"OK, jeez - I'll leave him alone. I just-"

"Buffy's mother is dead," Wes tells us, not troubling to hide his irritation.

Cordelia slumps, catching herself on the desk. She has gone pale.

"When?" I stammer in harsh tones.

"Buffy found her-"

"Buffy found her?" I erupt.

Wes nods in reply.

"How?" Cordelia asks. The same tears shining in her eyes waver in her voice.

"Day before yesterday and a brain aneurysm, to answer both your questions,"

Wes replies.

"And Giles waits until now to call?" I demand indignantly.

"He's been taking care of Buffy," Wes retorts. "_You_ were not his first

priority."

I nod in acceptance. He does not have to state how selfish I was, how

selfish I've been for a long time now.

"Poor Buffy," Cordelia murmurs.

"Funeral?" I choke out.

Wes nods. "Day after tomorrow."

"We're going," I state. I look at them. "Or I am. I understa-"

Cordelia is shaking her head. "I'll go. Buffy - we weren't exactly close, but - wow, her mom. That's - that's - ..."

"Yes, it is," Wes agrees. "And we'll all go. Buffy _was_ my Slayer for

a short while, no matter how badly I botched the job."

"You didn't botch the job, Wesley. Buffy was always - is ... if anyone was to

blame it was the Council."

"Thank you," he responds, "but I did make a mess of matters with Buffy."

"Oh my God!" Cordelia exclaims.

"Cordelia?" Wes asks with obvious concern.

"Oh, wait, never mind," she says.

"Cordelia?" I echo.

She looks up at us. "Oh - um - I was just thinking about-" she stops and places a head over the back of her head. She blushes. With a shrug added to a sheepish grin, she explains, "It will be all right to wear a hat to the funeral."

I exchange glances with Wes. We stare at her.

"The hair?" she asks rhetorically.

We nod. "Right. The hair," I agree, glad to know that in some ways Cordelia

will never change, catching myself in the realization Wesley is right - I

don't know Cordelia Chase very well anymore. Still, it is something that

these last months have not completely eradicated the girl I knew and -

quit loathing quite a while ago. I smile at her.

XXXXX

One of the benefits - if you can call it that - of having to hide under a blanket

during a long, daylight car trip is it gives you time to think. For a while

I listened to Wes, Cordy, and Gunn talk. Listening to them I understood exactly

what I did to them. I had thought they were as weak as I was, as frightened of the future. They never were. Saying I underestimated them is inadequate, just as my apologies have been.

After a while though my thoughts turned to Buffy. My girl. My beautiful girl. She asked me once what she would be if she were not the Slayer. I asked her once what she had left when all her friends were gone. The answer to both questions was the same. She is Buffy Summers and Slayer or not, she is amazing. I could not think of her as the Slayer then, but as a girl, hurting, mourning, solitary. Except for Finn, but I know, somewhere inside my soul, even with him, she is still alone; he can't touch her heart, not really.

My mind wandered back to the threesome around me. I had no idea what I was

going to tell Buffy about the last few months of my life, if I would tell her anything. I didn't have the courage to discuss it with Wesley, Gunn, and Cordy, to ask what they might tell her, how they planned to explain Gunn's presence.

"Gunn, you don't even know Buffy," I had protested.

"Yeah? So what?"

"Well, it'll - I mean -"

"I don't care what it's gonna seem like, if that's what you're gettin' at. The fact is I'm not quite ready to trust you yet with _my friends._" Gunn had stared at me. I'd nodded after a few breaths - Gunn's, not mine.

"So," Gunn says, "this is Sunnydale?"

I peer out from under the blanket. The sun is going down. By the time we get

to Buffy's house I'll be able to get out of the car. Wes's planning was impeccable.

Cordelia sighs. "_This_ is Sunnydale. A lot like Los Angeles. Well, in terms of the demons. Definitely _not_ the shoes."

They talk comfortably as Gunn drives, with Wesley giving directions from the backseat where he rides with the least pain.

Suddenly, Cordelia asks Wes, "Do you actually know where you're going?"

"Oh, yes, quite," Wes assures her. He is silent. "Er- well -

not really, come to think of it. I - um - didn't have a lot of contact with Buffy at her home."

I look out the window. "Turn right at the next intersection," I tell Gunn.

The sun sinks as Cordelia and I guide Gunn to Buffy's house. When we arrive,

there are a lot of cars.

"Wow," Cordelia murmurs, "nice Beemer. Must be - hmmm - out of town relative."

"Actually, I believe Giles told me once he had a new car," Wes offers. He is met by two perplexed stares and one blank one. Cordy's is sheer disbelief and mine is confusion.

"You - Giles?" I ask.

"I've consulted Giles on matters of research from time to time," Wes asserts.

I nod. Cordy shakes her head briefly. It appears she is still processing the idea of Giles owning a BMW. A red one. A red convertible one.

It's time, yet we all hang back, sitting in the car Gunn has parked half way down the block.

"Do they know we're coming?" Gunn inquires.

I exchange a look with Wes and Cordelia. We all look down.

"It never occurred to you to call?" Gunn asks incredulously.

We each mumble an excuse of some sort.

"You all were afraid they wouldn't want you here, weren't you?" Gunn wants to know. He's smiling and shaking his head. "You," he says,

looking at me, "I get. But what's with you two?"

Cordelia and Wes are silent.

"OK, OK," Gunn gives in. "Whatever. Let's just go and - let's go."

The sun has set, leaving a gold-lit twilight in place of its lethal rays.

I open the door and step out into the street. Cordelia is standing on the sidewalk, twisting her hands together. Gunn is close to her, gazing around at the neighbor's houses. He hands me the keys, then turns toward Buffy's. We walk in silence to her front door.

Cordelia rings the bell.

A girl I don't recognize, blond, pale, with an inquisitive look on her face, answers the door. "Ca-ca-can I help you?" she stammers.

"Um - we're -um - friends ... of Buffy's," Cordelia tells her.

She nods. "Oh." Her faces creases again. "I'm sorry - do you have – um classes with her?"

"No," Cordelia explains, "we - well, I went to school with her; Wes was her Watcher, for a -"

"Oh!" the girl exclaims. "You're Cordelia; you're Wesley... and," she looks

at me. She swallows. "You must be Ane-Ane-Angel."

Cordelia smiles at her. "Can we ...come in?"

The girl blushes. "Yeah, of course. Sorry." Before she can step aside, we all hear steps in the hall. The girl turns the slightest bit. Her demeanor gives me the impression she already knows who is behind her.

"What is it, honey?" Willow asks. Then, she sees us. I've never thought Willow was all that hard to read. Actually, you live nearly 250 years and no mortals are really all that tough to read. However, I'm having trouble guessing what she's thinking as she stares at us.

"We - um -," she pauses. "Did you tell Giles you were coming? Wait, no," she answers herself, "because Giles would have told - one of us."

"Willow," I say softly, catching her eye, "is it a problem? Our being here?"

"Hmm? Oh, no - well, I don't think ... no, of course not. Buffy and Dawn will be glad to have all their friends to support them."

Cordy, Wes, and I look at one another. Cordy's eyebrows are raised and Wes's face is creased into a confused look.

Willow and the blonde who called her "honey" look at one another. "Willow, maybe they - don't know?" the girl asks.

Willow steps out onto the porch, as does her companion, having looked over her

shoulder with a brief glance. The girl pulls the door nearly shut.

"Do any of you remember Dawn?" Willow asks.

"As in the time of day Angel starts to get a little toasty if he's outside?"

Cordelia asks.

Willow shakes her head. "As in Buffy's little sister."

"Willow," Wesley says, "I was never as close to Buffy as a Watcher should be,

but I do think I would have known if she had a sibling."

"Yeah. And I can pretty much guarantee I would have," I remind Willow.

"Willow!" a voice from inside calls out. It's Xander. Willow turns, then she looks back at the girl beside her.

"Do you mind?" the redhead asks. "I should-"

The blonde nods, blinking rapidly as she does so. She swallows, then adds, for emphasis, ""Yeah. I'll te-te-tell them."

She explains to us about Dawn, the Key. No one knows to what she's a key, only that this goddess Glory is searching for her and the monks who protected it when it was an energy form gave her human form and sent her to the Slayer for protection. We find out Dawn is a fourteen year old - a very typical fourteen year old who has now lost her mother.

"Oh, dear," Wesley sighs.

I nod and thank the girl for the information. She adds that Dawn has learned of her own true nature, so we don't need to hide it from her. She also observes that the teen remembers us.

"Perhaps those monks got a little rushed," Gunn says.

The girl smiles at him. She can't place him from the stories she's heard.

"This is Charles Gunn - a friend," Wesley tells her.

"By the way," Cordelia asks, tilting her head. I look over and see her hair has shifted so that the bald spot is showing. I fix it gently. She turns and glares at me. Then she grins weakly, understanding my gesture. She continues," who are _you_?"

The girl blushes. She stutters, "Ta-Ta-Tara ... Maclay. I'm -uh - Willow's - um - well, I guess you could say I'm the newest Scoobie."

"And you're dating the redhead?" Gunn asks.

She nods in response.

"'s cool," Gunn replies . He looks at the rest of us. "We gonna go pay our respects or what?"

"Right!" Cordelia exclaims with false luminance.

"Respects," Wes adds, somewhat weakly.

"Pay...respects," I murmur. I look up at Tara. "It's just ... we -"

She smiles at me. "It's all right."

She turns and we follow her into the house.

In the living room a girl, Dawn it must be, sits on the couch. Next to her, talking to her, is a young woman I vaguely recall. Anya. Dating Xander. The Vengeance Demon trapped in a mortal body after Cordelia's wish didn't work out too well.

"Isn't that Anyanka?" Wesley asks.

"She's dating Xander, I think," I supply.

Cordelia looks at me in horror. "And I was worried about my hair," she mutters.

"Angel?"

I turn. I made my peace with Rupert Giles a while ago, but it will never be an easy peace. I have the power to damage his Slayer like no one else could. For that, I don't think he'll ever forgive me. She is the daughter he never had and he protects her as any loving father would.

"Giles," I say.

"She'll be grateful to have you here," he assures me.

"I doubt Finn will be too happy," I tell him, trying to keep the jealousy out of my voice.

"Riley is gone," Giles states. "He returned to his commando unit."

"When?" I ask, hearing my voice break slightly.

"Before Christmas."

"She didn't ... call?"

Giles looks down. When he looks up, his face is concerned. "We heard - it didn't seem like the best time."

I nod.

Giles looks at Wesley and Cordelia. I resist the temptation to turn and judge their faces. "I assume that is ..."

"Past," I finish for him.

"Good," he says with a nod. His faces changes, becomes more practical. I no longer feel nailed to the wall by his gaze. "Buffy is upstairs, with Willow. They have to um - Buffy's mothe - they need a dress-" He is unable to go on.

"Do you think - could I help?" Cordelia asks.

Giles looks at her. I doubt he's ever heard that tone from Cordelia. I feel guilty again. Giles, Buffy, Willow - all of them - will be amazed at the change in Cordelia. They have reason to be. I don't. Yet, I am.

"Yes," Giles answers, softly. No one will ever accuse Rupert Giles of being either stupid or thick-headed. He may not understand the change in her, but he knows she is different and he accepts it.

Cordelia makes her way up the stairs.

"One dead body wasn't enough?" Xander says from behind Giles.

"Xander," Giles says without turning.

"Sorry." Xander glares at me, his eyes expressing the rage he's silenced. He brushes past Giles, past me, glances at Wesley, and continues to the living room. Xander is carrying a tray with sandwiches and drinks. Anya and Dawn look up. For the first time they notice us, the new arrivals.

"Oh, great," the teenager mutters, looking at me with hostility.

Then, I hear the sound I've been waiting to hear since Wesley told us the news. I hear her steps. I hear her voice. "Angel?" I hear the need in her voice, feel the flutter of her heart as if it beat in my own chest. I turn.

Her eyes break me. They are the only things in her still face that live. I see the storm of anger - how dare I come back to her, to comfort her, knowing I won't stay - grief - the only person who's known her through her entire life is gone; where does she go now - and relief - I love her; I will always love her and she will always be my girl.

I take a step toward her and she is in my arms. Her head rests against my chest. I can feel the exhaustion in his muscles, in the way she lets herself rest in my embrace. I know she is aching with grief, with new-found responsibilities, with the desire to turn it all back, to be, maybe for just one last, precious moment, the girl she'd been. The girl who didn't know she was the Chosen One. She looks up, her eyes filled with tears that must seem unending to her. I brush strands of her hair from her face and let my thumb slide along her cheekbone. My gaze is steady against hers, solid, certain. To no one else in this house is she a girl first and the Slayer second. I loved her before. She knows that.

There is a less than comfortable silence around us. Then, Giles proves something most vampires knows about the Council, something the Council may not even know about itself. They don't choose Watchers because of their intelligence, ability to research, fighting skills, or even their inclinations to follow orders. They are chosen because of an ineffable quality that comes down to their keen and innate understanding of human nature. At the heart of it, Watchers protect Slayers, not with their bodies, but with their hearts and souls. Wesley reminded me of it again, the other day, when he chastised me over the matter of Cordelia. Now, Giles proves it once more, by saying, "A walk might do you some good, Buffy. Some air." It is a command cloaked in the tone of suggestion, veiled in the air of concern.

She nods and begins moving to the front door. "Dawn-" she says suddenly and I see the burdens fall back onto her shoulders.

"We'll be here. All of us," Giles assures her.

She looks back at me. I follow her, taking the jacket Tara is holding out, the one Buffy will need and has forgotten. Buffy stops just outside the door. She gazes around and back behind her. The door is open and more pairs of eyes than she could possibly welcome are watching us. Giles begins to usher everyone away. I meet his eyes and nod once. No, it's not an easy peace we've made, but it is a peace.

Buffy has gone down the front steps and is staring at the walkway, at the driveway. "It's - impossible," she says, her voice soft and vague. "So many times - I see her - bringing in groceries, teasing Dawn-"

"And you can't believe you didn't know it was the last time she would ever do those things when it was the last time," I reply.

She looks at me.

"You feel like you should have known, should have noticed the details. You just know if you had, you'd be able to remember her better." I pause and look at the sky, already deepening to night. "You wish you _could_ remember her better, but already the memories - they're indistinct. Just around the edges. What was the last thing you said to her? Which one was her happiest smile and which one was the tired smile? What was her favorite book?"

She nods and the tears start to fall again. I gather her to me once more and stroke her hair. She clutches at my jacket, trying to pull herself inside it, trying to hide from the world. I'll let her hide as long as the world will. In the voice of a tearful, aggrieved child, she asks, "How did you know? I mean - well ..."

"I went back," I tell her after a long pause.

"You did?"

I rest my head against the top of hers and nod slowly.

She wants to know why.

"I remembered everything, Buffy. All the things I'd done as Angelus. My last memories of my mother and my sister ... I would say no man should have to remember that, but I'm not a man and I wasn't a man when I did what I did. The - I couldn't seem to remember anything else. I was searching for some -" I stop and swallow. It's a reflex action, nothing I actually need to do. "I wanted to remember them the way they were when I was alive."

"Did you?"

"Yes," I tell her. I don't know if she believes me or not, but I can only lie to her so much. "Do you want to walk?"

She nods.

I keep my arm around her as we walk.

"Did - remembering them - the way they were ... did it - do you still remember when they - died?" She struggles with the words.

I answer simply and with no equivocation. "Yes."

"Does it ever get better?"

"It does," I promise her and it's not a lie. Time does amazing things to creatures with souls. It patches the rents and tears in our hearts, even the ones we, in our pride or stubbornness or fear or doubt, have put there. Time chooses which pictures we see in our minds, keeping the happiest times at the front and relegating the rest to our nightmares.

With time we understand our mistakes and accept them for what they are - the frailty of creatures with a soul. We even learn to be glad of the pangs we feel because without that soul we'd never know them at all. We can only be strong because we are weak.

We reach the park and walk toward the carousel. Buffy steps up onto the platform and it makes her my height. She starts to turn, but I catch her hand. She stops, looks back. I reach up and bring her head toward mine, laying my forehead against hers, looking into her troubled eyes. "It's a cliché for a reason," I whisper.

"What is?" she responds.

"Time heals all wounds."

She places a hand against my silent, cold chest. Tears slip from her

eyes and trickle down her cheeks. "Not all of them, Angel."

We are sitting in the chariot, on the unmoving carousel. She is nestled against me and I have an arm around her shoulders. Her hands are wrapped in my larger one.

"I always wanted to keep your heart safe," I remind her.

"I know," she says. "But I'm the Slayer. You can't-"

"Not as the Slayer, Buffy," I interrupt, "but as that girl I saw that day. The most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. The girl who changed my life."

She is silent. After a long while, she takes a deep breath. "I'm not that girl anymore. I don't get to be," she confides.

"You will always be that girl, for me. Always, Buffy." I wait. She says nothing, so I continue, "I don't love you because you're the Slayer. When- when I was Angelus I didn't try to hate you because you're the Slayer. It's _you,_ Buffy. You. Buffy Anne-" I pause and suddenly remember why Anne Steele's face looks so familiar. It doesn't matter right now. I finish, "Summers. You made me better than I was ever supposed to be.

For that I love you; for that Angelus wanted to destroy you. Do you remember - in the mansion? The fight? The only thing you had left was yourself. Not Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. Just Buffy."

She nods against me. "And 'me' killed you," she says bitterly.

"You did what had to be done. The Slayer would have killed me without a word, would have been done with the whole thing. My girl, my amazing, loving girl, emptied herself out. You didn't do it because it was some sacred duty, Buffy. You did it because it was about the people you love and love goes deeper than any duty the Council can ever tell you is yours."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For letting me be ... as close to normal as I'll ever get."

Her words rip into me, calling back the flood of memories of the day that no longer exists. 'A normal girl, falling asleep in the arms of her normal boyfriend.' "Just like you've always wanted to feel?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

She sighs. "Not exactly. But close."

It's enough. I struggle against the urge to tell her about the Shanshu prophecy. But that's a trap. I can't think that way any longer. Mortality, Buffy, a demon-free existence - these things are not my reward. The smallest actions ... holding her, kissing the top of her head, letting her grieve, these things must be enough.

We are silent for a long while again. Her voice startles me from a reverie that was quite pleasant, a reverie filled with images of Buffy in all the years I've known her. "Spike claims to be in love with me."

I look down at her.

She nods.

I give her half a smile. "You want me to beat him up for you?"

She smiles. It's rueful and tired and I've little doubt she's going to feel guilty for smiling in about a minute, but still, it is good to see on her face. "No, Spike I can handle. But maybe if you wanted to sing something..."

I glare at her. "How do you know about that?"

"Wesley. He and Giles talk now and again."

I shake my head.

"Oh," she gasps. Her hand covers her mouth and she goes ashy.

I hush her fresh tears, murmuring, "It's all right, Buffy. The world moves on."

"I don't want it to," she sobs.

"Of course you don't. It still will."

"So soon?"

I look at her. "Buffy, where is your mother?"

She looks startled. "Her body is at-"

I shake my head. "Your _mother,_" I iterate.

"I - I - I don't know," she stammers.

"Is your mother, all the things that made her Joyce Summers, is she at a funeral home?"

She shakes her head in reply. "I told Dawn, that's just the body. It's not her."

"Buffy, the world started moving on the moment you accepted her soul was gone."

She breaks out in fresh tears. "Mommy, Mommy," she sobs and I shatter all over again. I wrap my arms around her as tightly as I can. She shakes furiously with impotent rage and grief, with confusion and fear. I run my fingers through her hair, kiss the top of her golden head, murmur her name like a mantra, and remind her of my love for her as she cries herself out.

When she's done, when she's gulping for air and getting panicky because she can't seem to get enough, I let her go, let her sit back against the side of the chariot and I look at her. She sees my gaze and begins to calm, begins to breathe more slowly. This is not the last time she will cry for her mother. There will be moments, getting breakfast, nagging her sibling (a concept I still find bizarre), reading a book for class, when something will tug at the corners of her heart and the grief will be raw and fresh. There will be nights she will wake herself up crying, wondering why, then berating her sleep-weary mind for having forgotten the defining fact - her mother is dead. For the first time, I hope there will be someone there, someone who loves her, who will comfort her and soothe the ache. I think of Finn and wonder why he left, but deep inside, I already know. I hope the next time Buffy will be able to give a little piece of herself. I already have the best parts.

I don't know why, but I tell her, "I slept with Darla."

She cringes against the side of the chariot. Her eyes are alight with fury

and distrust. "But-"

"I didn't lose my soul."

"The curse?"

I shrug. "Wes told me last spring and I didn't think about it until I had

reason to."

"Told you what?"

"The bliss, Buffy - it's not the sex. It's love, true, eternal love. And that's never going to be anyone but you. Ever."

She makes no reply. Finally, she says, "Darla?"

"I was in a bad place," I say, by way of apology. I can't admit it, no matter how much I love her, but it makes Riley Finn look better and better when you compare him to what I went out and found.

"Worse than the demon dimension?"

I waver. "Possibly," I tell her at last.

She shudders, but comes back to my arms. Neither of us is perfect and if we both survive End of Days, I have a feeling we're going to have a lot to answer for to each other. But none of that matters right now.

She is so quiet. I listen to her breathing and realize she has fallen asleep. I smile, wishing we could just stay here until someone comes looking for us. If I wait that long though, they might find Buffy and a pile of dust. I rouse her gently and suggest we head back to her house.

We walk to the edge of the carousel and I reach to lift her down. It earns me the tired smile. I cannot help myself. As I lift her up, pull her close, I bring my lips to hers. It's been so long - so long I try not to count the days, hours, and minutes - since I kissed her. The feel of her supple, giving mouth against mine stirs memories of all ratings, from pleasant 'G' rated, 1950s movies goodnight kisses, to the 'no one under 17 admitted' dreams I can't escape. I turn, bringing her with me, and set her down. We break apart reluctantly. She looks up at me, her eyes wary. She is a bit breathless.

"How long has it been?" she asks once she can breathe well again.

I tell her. Exactly.

She nods.

Nothing more is said and we walk back to her house in silence. The house is dark and the cars have gone. We walk in and find Giles has left a note. 'Buffy,' it reads, 'Dawn is with Willow and Tara, at Tara's. Please tell Angel that Cordelia is at Willow's and Wesley and their associate, Gunn, have gone with me. Don't protest about Dawn. You cannot help her until you, yourself, are feeling better and have rested. We will all be back in the morning, in plenty of time. Xander, as always, will bring the doughnuts. Giles'.

Buffy looks around at the empty house. She presses her lips together. She is trembling. "He's right," she says hoarsely. "I couldn't have helped Dawn before. Not really."

I nod. "He's also right about your needing rest," I tell her.

She sighs with exhaustion. It is almost as though we have given her permission to be tired. I watch her loosen her grip on that iron will of hers, let some of the control go. She's going to need it in the days to come, but for tonight, she can give in.

She begins to climb the stairs. She is four steps up when she turns and looks down at me. "Angel?"

"Hmmm?"

"Aren't you ... I mean, there's no one to - "

"Are you sure you want me to?"

She nods and holds out a hand. She waits until I catch up to her, until I take her hand, and then she continues up the stairs. She does not even look at the other doors, closed against the memories. She'll open them later. Now she needs to close her eyes, to sleep, to find in the soft places of the unconscious the strength she'll need.

I stare out the window as she changes behind me. When she tells me I can turn around, she is in her bed, under the covers, and only her bedside lamp remains lit. I make my way over to her.

"Same as the last time?" I ask.

She looks at me, face puzzled.

"The floor," I remind her.

"Oh," she says with a start. "After the Three...," her voice trails off. "No, not same as the last time."

I lay down next to her, after turning off the light. She slides into my arms and molds herself against me. Desire, fierce and heated, pulses through me like fresh blood would, filling my head with a rushing feeling. She slides a hand up, along my cheek, her nails lightly scraping the skin. She is half asleep as she murmurs, "'Night, Angel."

I whisper in her ear the words I think whenever I think of her like this- soft, vulnerable, achingly mortal - "Still my girl, Buffy?"

"Always," she replies as she slips into the arms of Morpheus.

I rest my head against hers and treasure those two syllables. And when, at last, I sleep I dream of my sister, of Kathy, laughing, playing hide and seek with her older brother. She smiles and squeals and I can remember, for the first time in two and a half centuries, how much I loved her. I can remember how much she loved me. In my dream is a blonde girl and I tell Kathy that the blonde girl with the beautiful smile made me everything I am and ever will be.

END


End file.
